


s is 1/2 gt squared

by anethicalbutcher



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1980s, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluffish, Gen, I think this is fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Poorly Explained Particle Physics, SECOND time the leon lederman tag has been used, cows?, getting tipsy on reception champagne, it's only the second time because i posted this back innnn, july last year, what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anethicalbutcher/pseuds/anethicalbutcher
Summary: “Well, I thought we’d left the mix of science and religion alone  – I suppose She wants to get back into it, somehow.” He passed his champagne glass between his hands before taking a polite sip. “Science can be used to glorify Her creations.”“Or it can be used to tear asunder the fine threads holding the cosmos together.”Crowley and Aziraphale have a chance meeting at a particle accelerator, and find out what it has to do with buffalo herds, cheap champagne and soon-to-be Nobel Prize-winning physicist Leon Lederman.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	s is 1/2 gt squared

**Author's Note:**

> title is from tom lehrer's [_s is 1/2 gt 2_](https://ww3.haverford.edu/physics-astro/songs/lehrer/sgt2.htm) \- because physics are funny.
> 
> so have some extremely niche fic for my first go work - i used to go to this particle accelerator, and it's a bit of a love letter to the area. rip lederman - we miss you (enough that you'll now be immortalized through the creative art of fanned fiction).
> 
> this is a repost from my previous account perfectlywillingtoswear; i'm trying to consolidate all my things in all the places i put them
> 
> i am nowhere NEAR being a physicist or knowing two cents about it. that's all

_1986, Chicago, Illinois, United States of America._

Well, very nearly Chicago, anyway. Just outside the suburb of Batavia, on rolling fields of soy and corn. It was a pleasant December (insofar as the Midwestern U.S. was concerned). A winter of delayed snow, the air was crisp without a flake on the ground, trees shaking themselves bare of their brown shells like summer cicadas.

Crowley had taken to wearing his shirts more open these days; with a blazer tossed over his rolled-up-sleeves shirt, dark chinos pulled over the ankles which gave view to the bony malleoli over his sockless espadrilles, he looked more fitted to be drinking Mojitos on a yacht somewhere on the northwestern coast than driving his Bentley past a group of cud-chewing bovines behind a wire fence (if he ever felt a chill, he needed only to remind the it that he was from the Pit of the World, Burning Scape of Broiling Seas, Hell-Charred Estate of Scorching Damnation, and the sensation would make the sensible decision to move on to the next sap who needed a touch of gelidity). But it was a party, of a sort – though the tempting had happened years ago, he was in charge of upkeep on this specific project, scheduled for maintenance every 15 years or so, just so the humans wouldn’t lose interest.

It really _was_ in the middle of abso-fucking-lutely nowhere; he’d never seen such vacant spaces since he’d taken a tempting in Switzerland, circa 1805 (the Alps were always a surprising hub for isolated temptations – Crowley had come up with the notion of ‘cabin fever’ about three millennia prior, and was having great fun with its generational offspring). But the building was visible from quite a distance; indeed, with nothing else to cover it and with its fairly considerable size, the stout gray building was hard to miss. Soon enough, he’d reached the gate to it, stopping in front of the red-and-white-striped boom barrier. He pulled up to the security window.

“ID, sir?”

_Shit._ He’d forgotten all about that part. “Yes – the. Yes. Have it right here.”

Trying to piece together what a license looked like nowadays, he stuck his hand in his pocket and hoped for the best, pulling out a newly-miracly-minted driver’s ID.

His license was scrupulously scanned. “Anthony Crowley?” The attendant attempted to peer around his dark shades (the Wayfarers did their job quite well).

“ _Anthony_ ,” he corrected, enunciating the _T_. “Friend of Leon’s.” Soon to be, anyway.

The striped pole lifted up. “Have a great evening, sir.”

“Yeah. Yep.” He was already halfway past the security station, ready to get out of this Satanforsaken town – if you could even call it that.

-•-

It was the first time Aziraphale had actually taken an airplane. There was no special occasion for it, just a simple blessing, but he’d always wanted to give it a try. It was impressive in its own right; clouds, near-heavenly light, he’d seen all that before. But the sheer ingenuity of human willpower, the mere notion that man had wanted to fly and then _did_ it, well, Aziraphale certainly wished he could be half as motivated sometimes. First-class dining didn’t hurt, either.

The limo out of O’Hare, however, was less exciting than expected. It was only him, and the backseat felt cavernous, and a bit like a nightclub might if it was open at two in the afternoon, the tinted windows letting in filtered light from the beating sun. It was uncomfortable, but not so long; the scenery shifted from cold steel and concrete to gravel and dry grass. The area was placid and flat, and he felt a certain sense of tranquility within the golden-colored wheat in sqaureish fields, and purple-petaled wildflowers that grew on the side of the road.

“Moo,” a cow had said upon their passing.

There it was, on the horizon. He was certain that had to be it; there was barely anything for miles around. Flat and scored by windows, with two blocky convex curves creating its shape, the structure reminded him of a large stone Buddha he’d seen in Nihonji many years ago; in a striking way, blending into its setting, carved out of (or perhaps into) the landscape.

On arriving at the gate, he realized they’d need to check his ID; luckily he’d come prepared, but he’d still need to get out of the car and tell his driver to go on his merry way.

“Right here is fine,” he said, “I can walk to the entrance.”

The driver gave him an odd look, but shrugged and unlocked the door. “Take care.”

“You too,” he said with a smile, and tipped the man with a one hundred dollar bill.

He smoothed out his trousers; since the 60s, pants had gone to tighter fits, which he abhorred. But recent fashions had given a touch more breathing room, allowing for a much more relaxed fit, which he, in turn, appreciated. A suit was much more sensible for tonight, anyway; casual, a cream jacket with rounded lapels and just the top button of his shirt opened, and brown leather shoes with a clever little monk-strap. He knew he’d look a little silly approaching the gate on foot, but in the worst case he could simply make the guard forget what he’d seen.

“Hello,” he said cordially. “I’m here for the event.”

The attendant gave him a thorough once-over, but seemed unperturbed. “ID?”

“Of course. Right here.” He handed over the little square.

Inspection. “Mr. Fell?”

“Quite,” he said, trying his best at a charming beam.

His ID was handed back to him. “No car?”

“Oh, I’ve just had a limousine drop me off. I’m, ah – ” He hadn’t thought about that part. He supposed he’d just miracle himself back. “I’ll get a ride back with a friend.”

The guard nodded, pulling up the gate. “Have a great evening, sir.”

“Same to you,” he said, making his way past the parking lot.

-•-

Laboratories, to Crowley, had existed mainly in science fiction; not since da Vinci had he stepped into any remotely related place. But here, there were no bubbling beakers or shocks of visible electricity zapping from coil to coil (to his disappointment). There were empty rooms and lecture theatres, a cafeteria with a few people milling about. Colorful flyers had been pasted around the halls: **RECEPTION THIS WAY →** , with varying directions. It took him to an elevator, with a green paper declaring **RECEPTION ON 15 th FLOOR**.

Science had never really been his bag. Sure, he’d created lots of stars and nebulas and such back in his day, but he hadn’t really been thinking about the consequences. Hydrogen, oxygen, all that – he was just doing whatever he thought looked best at the time.

Physics and the like were nearly irrelevant; he never played by those rules, anyway. He’d simply been in a bad mood one day in 1666, and decided to cause misfortune to a man sitting under an apple tree. Poetic justice, really; but then Isaac was a bit of a cracked walnut, and decided to go off and blabber on about universal motion and the sort. It was an accident that humans stumbled upon the laws governing the universe, one that Crowley decidedly ignored to save himself the headache.

But there was one thing Crowley had always liked about scientists: they were always full of questions. Absolutely teeming with questions, wanting more knowledge, attempting to reach out for the apple and take a bite. And they had, many times over, until the apple was full of bitemarks and bruises, seeds spit out and swallowed in turn. It was chaos nearly all of the time, though they couldn’t see it, grappling for answers in the dark. But they’d been onto something recently – in fact, something rather big. Big enough that Hell had clambered for Crowley to jump on it at the first opportunity, encouraging research he didn't understand nor care to. Now, though, with a touch better understanding a few years later, the prospect of the research put something akin to a twinge of fear in his heart. This was powerful stuff; he wasn’t sure playing with the universe all willy-nilly was the best course of action for humanity to be taking, but it was encouraged by his Side nonetheless. Science was simply a newfound tool for them, using it to make humans hunger for knowledge and question God’s path – but it seemed Crowley was the only one who believed that dicking around with this sort of thing would blast all of them, on every side, back to carbon and hydrogen and suchstuff.

_Ding._ The 15th floor was decorated in gold balloons and white streamers, cheap champagne already being handed out on trays. The whole thing was trying to be high-class, but it had the distinct vibe that in about two hours or so it was going to get _very_ trashy; he might as well inspire some good old-fashioned coworker drama, a breakup or two and some bathroom sex.

This might actually be some fun.

-•-

It wasn’t that Aziraphale felt out of place; it was just that he felt a little out of his depth. He’d understood the concept well enough, but a lot of it was smiling and nodding through Gabriel’s prompts, hoping to Heaven that he’d remember it all by the time he got there. But luckily he only really needed to worry about the easiest parts – shaking a few hands, giving congratulations, performing a sort of abstract blessing on their research. The original blessing had taken place some time back, with a few different people. After all, as a Principality part of his job was to oversee germinal ideas, science and art being just a few*. Inspiring humanity to glorify God through creation and research, and helping them to understand God’s divine role in all of it; that was his function. At least partly, and at the very least tonight, and at the utmost least needing to grab a flute of champagne off of a passing tray and attempting to find his target – er, rather, his charge.

He weaved in and out of the various mix of physicists and donors laughing and gabbing, adorned in big jewelry and bigger smiles. It was certainly a welcoming atmosphere; he hadn’t really expected those in the hard sciences to be such a cheerful bunch.

There, in the back, he spotted him – his white fluff of hair wasn’t too dissimilar from his own, dressed in a soft red sweater, and he seemed deep within a conversation with another man. It’d been years; he certainly looked older. He’d been sent on assignment, right after the Second World War, to inspire a promising young man towards the research of physics. Why Heaven would want to get involved in such things, he hardly knew – but there he was, lending him a copy of some old textbook in the guise of a fellow soldier. Now, he was director of the entire facility, and seemed to be on his way towards more major breakthroughs. He supposed he should be proud, if he knew what to be proud about.

It seemed that speeches and such had already happened, and the party was in its full swing. The man talking to the white-haired man began to leave, looking for more libations – he took exactly one step, just _one_ , before he knew.

Bugger all.

-•-

Bugger all. Of all the entire places to be, at any point, at any run-down half-measured benefit-reception-celebratory-function, why here? What did the angel have _anything_ to do with nuclear physics, much less at a party celebrating new achievements in it?

It wasn't like he was unhappy to see him; just the opposite. But their last meeting had been so _awkward_ , and he nearly wanted to jump out the 15th-story window. He wasn’t about to have the necessary conversation about exactly what had transpired in 1967 in a crowded area full of drunken horny scientists. He was just not ready for that.

Thank god for the Wayfarers. If Aziraphale was looking at him with that mix of elation, disgust and expectation, he couldn't imagine what his own eyes would be giving away at the moment.

_What do_ you _want?_ Aziraphale mouthed.

_Not you._ Crowley poked a thumb towards the red-sweatered man.

Aziraphale paled. _Him?_

_Ye-p._

Aziraphale marched over, taking long strides across the room to grab him by the elbow and hauled him to a discreet corner. “Please don’t tell me you’re actually here to talk to him.”

“So long as he’s Leon Lederman, I’m here to talk to him.”

“You’re positive?”

“Sure as the day I was – well, sure at the day I _was_.”

Aziraphale let go of his elbow (and Crowley tried to ignore the funny tingle that lingered – a kind of angelic energy, likely) and screwed up his face in a look of thorough concentration. “What the _hell_ are you talking to _him_ for?”

“Kindling a fancy for scientific progress in the pursuit of power. Thing’s strong enough to pull the whole universe apart, I’d imagine.”

“Sabotage!” Aziraphale jabbed two fingers into the middle of his chest (more tingling†). “You came all the way here to disrupt _my_ mission? The one that didn’t have _anything_ to do with _you?_ ”

“That wasn’t the plan, angel – ”

“So you came here to _interrupt_ me?”

“I didn’t know!” He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender (and a subsequent one of exasperation). “I had no idea you would be here! I just got my instructions from Downstairs and wound up here!”

Aziraphale looked at him with the wary caution of a reserved librarian who’d just had to chide a child for speaking too loudly and was receiving a nearly heartfelt apology. “You mean it?”

“Of course, why would I be lying to you _now_ of all times?”

He smoothed out the soft lapels of his twill jacket. “Well…I’m here for Lederman, too.”

“For him? Same as me?”

“Yes. No! I was just sent to congratulate him, encourage him to further his research and all that.”

“Thought your lot would’ve stayed out of scientific affairs; then again, stranger things.”

“Well, I thought we’d left the mix of science and religion alone when the Raëlians came along – I suppose She wants to get back into it, somehow.” He passed his champagne glass between his hands before taking a polite sip. “Humans taking interest in the World that She’s made, that’s hardly a sin. Science can be used to glorify Her creations.”

“Or it can be used to tear asunder the fine threads holding the cosmos together.”

He swatted at his arm. “ _Or_ it can be used to glorify God. I’m here to make the former – er, the latter – happen – ”

But as he turned to nod toward the man in the red sweater, both of them found him gone. “Oh, hell.”

Crowley looked at the absent spot, then to Aziraphale. “So much for saving the nuclear destruction of the planet. And the rest of it.”

Aziraphale shot daggers (or, the closest thing an angel could shoot from a nasty look; arrows, or perhaps blades of grass), then huffily put his empty glass on a tray, in enough time for Crowley to refill it and snatch it back up. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to go find him.”

“Not if I don't get to him first.”

Aziraphale gave him a sidling eye. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m saying winner takes it all.” He scanned the round room, looking for a hint of the man around. “Whoever gets to him first, gets to do the tempting – or the blessing.”

Nearly twenty years apart, and he still couldn’t resist a good setup. Though they’d never done it like this; in the past, their Arrangement had been solely a system of mutual beneficence, trading off jobs if they needed to be elsewhere and hadn’t gotten it done yet, or taking the one the other didn’t want to do, or calling the whole thing off in the end and chalking it up to a universal stalemate. But a fiber of tension had been running between them, not a disagreeable one to either. It didn't help that the last time they’d seen each other Aziraphale had given Crowley a rather large self-destruct button then told him he didn’t want to be around him but also that he wanted to picnic with him sometime in the near-to-far future. Neither of them would think they were playing coy – but it helped not to address it at the very moment. Not when Crowley grabbed another flute of champagne for Aziraphale, handing it to him with long fingers and a leisurely smile.

“What do you think, angel?”

“…This isn’t a game, Crowley.”

“Oh, no.” He put his palm to his chest. “Serious as a heart attack.”

They ignored the fact that they were both smiling.

“But I’m going to win.” With a brassy flash of teeth, Crowley took off. Aziraphale, catching himself biting the inside of his cheek so as not to be grinning so widely, went the other way.

They seemed to have agreed on the rules without having discussed them; small-talk with other reception-goers was encouraged, to both find out where Lederman was and to cultivate increasingly ridiculous personas.

“You know, I met Lederman through his wife when we water-poloed together.”

“Oh, Mr. Lederman? Old friend. I shot him during the war.”

“Ah yes, I know Leon academically; we shared a year of teaching at Brighamtonbrigewiles University over in Devonsfield. I was there teaching Underwater Physics and Nuclear Non-Energy.”

They both understand that if they saw him they had to _act casual_ – stealing glances at each other, they’d twist their way around the patrons, slowly circling and winding to get nearer. One of them would get ahead; the other would make an annoyed face and try to gain speed without drawing attention. And, if he was whisked away by somebody else (which he always inevitably was), they had to start form the beginning and do the whole charade over again.

Other than these simple rules, it was every supernatural entity for himself – bobbing between drunken guests, imbibing enough for themselves, feeling a bit peckish and grabbing a few hors d’oeuvres from off the plastic-covered party tables, they meshed and un-meshed themselves from the party, to each other, back to the party, back to watching Lederman being changed hands, here and there, losing sight of him then seeing him at the opposite corner of the room. They’d be opposite each other then, too; from across the floor, they’d look to see a playful expression from one and a tongue tucked between teeth from the other, and they’d throw themselves back into the fray.

Every now and again, they’d pass right by each other; those, they wouldn’t say, were their favorite moments. Aziraphale even managed to brush his pinky against Crowley’s arm. They both happened to feel it.

They went through many unsuccessful attempts and even more glasses of alcohol. Eventually, they’d gotten too winded and dizzy and mutually decided on a company break from what were technically work duties.

The sun was starting its descent; neither of them had noticed how much time they’d spent putting away drink and dish, mingling with the crowd and telling stories. They weren’t sure how many minutes had been left to making faces at each other across the room, but they realized it was probably more than they initially measured (or meant to). Red was just beginning to break through the sky, streaming pinks and peaches on the wisps of clouds. Crowley ambled towards Aziraphale, pensively looking out the window; the light caught the champagne in his glass and refracted it gently onto his face, all pinkish-golden. “Angel?”

“Hmm?” He’d seen him coming, and had pretended not to notice.

“D’you think we could see it from here?” Crowley gestured towards the plains outside.

“I’m not sure what we’d be looking for.”

Crowley gave a grin. “Care to find out?”

The room was a room usually used for educational displays and models of the technology and hardware; but the room had been purged of its hangings and documentarian photos to make room for the plastic party tables and boisterous conversations. Each side of the floor (much of it accessible through little corridors stuffed with cardboard boxes full of files and other such scientific items) had a window overlooking the wide-open spaces outside; this was useful for school tours that wanted to see the fancy nuclear equipment from the necessary height and angle. And so they decided, this being a company break and all, and having had few chances to be in America, much less at a nuclear facility there, that they’d take a quick look around – just a quick one – and find out what all the fuss was about.

The two moved away from the celebratory crowd, chortling and nudging each other down one florescent-lit hallway. One side of the floor they found had a large viewing window, but it only overlooked yellow fields and grassy vantages‡. Neither of them was exactly sure what they were looking for, but they were sure that when they saw it, they would know.

And they did, though it took them a while to recognize it. There, down another hallway, to another side of the floor, was an observation deck. Even though the sun was setting behind them, the shadow of the 15th floor didn't reach the expanse of land, marked by two enormous circular tracks in a peculiar figure-eight fashion.

“Reckon that’s it,” Crowley said, stepping onto the deck through a little glass door. “Big ol’ thing.”

“It’s…different than I’d imagined it.”

“Not very exciting, is it?”

Aziraphale tilted his head, throwing his arms over the railguard. “Well, the design might be lacking, but the idea is certainly there.”

Crowley took a sip from the glass he hadn’t realized he’d still been holding. “Not sure I understand it, anyway.”

“Particles, I think; first time it’s happened here,” Aziraphale slurredly mused. “Whizzing around.”

“Can’t understand to what end.”

“Well, it’s sort of like – you’ve got these two particles, these _protons_ , accelerating – seeing as that’s what it’s called – and when, the thing is, when they meet, they smash all together and they, the scientists, think that’ll make a _new_ particle. So they’re trying to find that new particle. At least, that’s how I understand it.”

“Yes, but I can’t understand to what _end._ What’s the new particle going to do for them?”

He looks down at his ring. “I’m not sure.”

“That’s the thing that’ll blow up the universe, I’m assuming. Smashing together the tiniest bits. Making the whole world a bomb.” He sips his champagne moodily.

“Perhaps they know what they’re doing.” Unconvinced by himself, Aziraphale practiced changing the subject. “Why is the laboratory called that?”

“Called what?”

“Fermilab. Isn’t _fermium_ an element?”

“Yeah, but he was a man first. Enrico Fermi. Physicist, scientist. Made the world’s first nuclear reactor.” He looked at his glass, then handed a new one to Aziraphale. “Good old 100Fm was found in the aftermath of Ivy Mike, two years before he died. He didn’t want to be part of the bombs, but there he was, whether he liked it or not. Some random, naming elements after you. Can you imagine?”

“But he worked here?”

“No, another naming in honor. Humans love that sort of stuff.”

“Can’t seem to get enough of it.”

Crowley smiled around the rim of his glass. “Yeah.”

They stood in silence for a moment, gazing out onto the open prairie, the looping collider. The auric fields contained themselves within and without the circled berm of earth, making the track feel as natural to the environment as the tallgrasses, the blue-steel lakes, the tree-spotted horizon.

“Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“I thought – that is, I just wanted to say…” He looked at him, looked at him with those early-morning-light-blue eyes, then slid them away. “About what transpired – ”

“Gentlemen.”

They both jumped, miracling themselves at least halfway sober before they’d realized they did it.

“We were just – ”

“We were here for the – ”

“The reception! Right, and – ”

The man raised his hand. “You’re allowed to be up here, you know.”

They relaxed. “Oh.”

He moseyed up to the rail besides them. “Admiring the Tevatron?”

“Is that what it’s called?” Aziraphale said, before realizing his mistake and hiding his face in his glass.

The man looked between the two of them. “I figured you weren’t really with our crowd.”

“How did you guess?” Crowley asked, taking a sardonic drink.

He paused for a brief moment. “Well, I’ve been an atheist for most of my life – but I’ve read the Chumash. Parts of it, anyway.” He gave him a crooked grin. “I understand that some things are beyond the laws of our natural universe.”

They looked to each other. None of them said anything for a while, before he continued: “You were wondering about the accelerator?”

“Uh, yeah; not sure what it’s there for, really.”

“Or how it actually works.”

“Or what a proton even _is_.”

The man laughed, scratching the dull fabric of his sweater. “It’s all kinds of complicated. Think about it this way: you’ve got your proton – a particle, smaller than an atom – and your antiproton. Every particle’s got its antiparticle. Like if every car had its own parking spot. But it’s not about one fitting inside the other; it’s simply about something being there and something not. Nothing is made out of _nothing_ , it’s made out of antimatter. Nothing is made out of the opposite of something, which is still technically something.

“So some protons can meet each other, say ‘hello, how are the kids’. Antiprotons can do that too; but when the two of them meet, just the two, an explosion happens.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged worried looks.

“Not an actual explosion. See, that down there,” he pointed to the circular track, “that sends the particles shooting towards one another until they collide; both become obliterated, but there’s a chance, a small chance, that another particle will get made because of it.”

“That’s it? A new particle?”

“Not just any particle. The Higgs Boson. I like to think of it as a ‘God particle’; this new particle would be the key to understanding the structure of all matter, and antimatter, but we can’t just reach out and grab it – it eludes us, escapes us, its importance becomes nearly indescribable. It’s a huge step forward in understanding the fundamental forces in the universe – we just have to find it first.

“Without getting too deep in it, it’s this completely new thing created by these opposing – well, opposing isn’t the right word. Just the opposite thing. They’re not working against each other; it takes _both_ of them meeting to make the new particle. And if those two particles can create a new particle, bigger than the both of them – who _knows_ what could happen in the future?”

“And you intend to find this, ‘God Particle’?” Crowley asked.

“Not finding it would be just as significant.”

Aziraphale rubbed his temple. “I’m still not quite sure I understand all of it – in fact, I think I may be further behind than I thought.”

“Ditto on that.”

The man’s cheeks rose up underneath his eyes. “I’m sure you both will, someday.”

He pushed away from the rail, stretching his arms above his head. “Great party, but you guys had the right idea – it’s a nice night to get away.”

“Certainly. The post-harvest weather, and all,” Aziraphale said airily.

“Should start heading back, though; I’m the man of the hour, after all,” he joked.

“Yeah. Go enjoy your party,” Crowley muttered, not unkind.

The man nodded, and headed back towards the glass entrance.

Aziraphale stopped a breath. “Mr. Lederman?”

He stopped to turn. “Yes?”

“You said you were an atheist; any particular reason why, if I might ask?”

Mr. Lederman had a sparkling look in his eye. “Things might be ineffable, but not inevitable. If we’re part of what was created, then maybe we can create a part of it ourselves. It’s all particles, even the anti-ones.”

With that, he gave a raised hand as a good-bye and closed the deck door behind him.

They watched him leave, then noticed the deep-blue dark beginning to hang over the sky, speckling the most opaque parts with stars. “I don't think he needs our help.”

Aziraphale didn't look back. “Yes, I think that one’s just fine.”

“He’ll probably be tempted by his own path, anyway.”

“I rather think he’ll find it one of enlightenment.”

“The very problem.”

“ _Holy_ enlightenment,” he emphasized. He finally met Crowley’s face; his eyes, Crowley thought, were too warm to be the color of the hoarfrost forming on the cropped stalks of wheat. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah.”

They stood, for a moment, in the cool air’s repose. “Where are you off to then, angel?”

“Oh, back to the bookshop, I suppose. Just take the quick way home – ”

“Come with me.”

He’d said it before he’d meant to, but there it was. He hoped the Wayfarers were as dark as he needed them to be right now. “Come for a drive. Maybe we can find a decent place to get a drink around here, other than crashing a physicist’s congratulation party.”

“Crowley.” He’d said it soft enough to break his heart. “Of course.”

Crowley took his hand, then – Aziraphale had marveled at the way his fingers fit perfectly around his palm – and they nearly ran to the elevators; Crowley jabbing at the buttons, Aziraphale not even attempting to hide his giddy laugh. They jumped into the Bentley, racing down the open stretch of road, watching Fermilab shrink back down to a dot as they left it behind them.

Aziraphale did get a ride back with a friend, in the end; but if they had stopped at the side of a gravel road among the ash and the sassafras trees, and if their hands had lingered, and their mouths had hovered – if, on one particular deciduous lane in the middle of a very rural Illinois, their eyes had closed, and they had leaned in – if, in fact, their lips had met, and they stayed there, stayed exactly like that, for a stretch of time that neither of them could measure – if they had almost whispered secrets that had been tucked away for nearly 6,000 years – _I love you, I love you, I love you_ – well, it would be safe to say that scientists across the world got a little closer to discovering the Higgs Boson on that one, starry evening.

-•-

________________________________________________________

_* Others jobs Principalities were supposed to take on included guiding nations and protecting groups of people and institutions, but after the whole Garden fiasco they decided to pardon him from certain aspects of the title._

_† Crowley hoped he wouldn’t get a rash like the last time Aziraphale had touched him like this; this divine contact was obviously too strong for Crowley’s corporeal form. In one particularly chilly winter in 1709, he’d tried to warm his hands against Crowley’s face – it broke into awful ruddy patches, all the way up to his ears. And once, back in the 1310s, he had playfully put his finger to the pit of his neck; that one didn’t go away for several days, until he’d finally had enough and told the rash if it didn't disappear he’d carve it off himself._

_‡ If either of them had bothered to look into it, they would have realized they had one of the best views of the laboratory’s celebrated buffalo herd, kept so as to maintain the natural wildlife and help the species not to die off; the scientists were quite invested in the local culture, which included preserving large areas of wild prairie and the raising of a barn for square-dancing and other such traditional Midwestern dances._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you


End file.
